Arabella drew down her brows tight, not at all liking what he implied. “You dislike them?”
The slow spreading grin of a wolf, and the man snorted. “Do you like them?”
“They were pleasant and obliging.”
“You are aware that the majority of their interest in you is based solely on your station and assumed fortune, Baroness?”
She was aware. “Is there a point to this meaningless... conversation?”
“Speech between us has never been meaningless, Imp.”
Narrowing her eyes, she growled. “Try inconsequential then.”
Harrow leaned forward, the entirety of his expression revealed. “Have I not acted generously?”
“Generously?” She spoke the words with disgust.
Delighted by her indignant expression, he picked a piece of lint from his pantaloons. “I hired a team of men to remove the devil's thorn around your maiden's tower.”
A stifled sound caught in her throat. “You knew I would be unhappy to have strange men descending upon my house without warning. I could not step outside for days!”
The grin he gave her, the way his gaze seemed to eat her up, it made her squeeze her eyes closed and press her fingers to her temples.
Unaware he’d scooted nearer, she yipped, feeling unwelcome hands burrow into her hair.
He pulled just enough pins so her coiffure slipped, Magdala's carefully arranged knots tumbling down. It was so sudden, so quickly done, that before she could protest, Mr. Harrow was already situated back on his seat. “There. Is that not better?”
The tension was gone from her scalp, but her heart was pounding in her ears.
He grunted as if displeased before she could sputter out whatever scathing reply her stumbling brain fought to piece together. “You have cut your hair.”
Arabella choked on words, touching the fresh, short curls Magdala had sheared to frame her face. “...this is lady’s fashion.”
A leer, that’s all Arabella saw in the small sliver of moonlight before Mr. Harrow spoke. “Are you going to pretend to be affronted that I let down your curls?” The way he watched her, those deep all-seeing eyes, grew curious. “Perhaps now you will be less of a vitriolic bore and converse pleasantly.”
One insult and her shoulders grew straight.
“Do not play the wounded Imp. Every time I have seen you, you are running wild with your hair loose and your feet bare.” He displayed the stolen hairpins in his hands, offering them back to her.
She wanted to grow claws and let him feel their sting. “I do not like being touched.”
“I am aware.” He snorted under his breath, rubbing his cheek in remembrance of her slap. Chin lowering to his chest, he held her gaze and just observed. “But, did it not lessen the ache?”
Fuming, fists clenched, Arabella glared at the devil. He was playing with her, goading her for a reaction. “What is it that you want? Why are you in my carriage?”
Flourishing his fingers, Mr. Harrow brought his palm to his chin and stated with raised brows, “To speak with you.”
Trying to control herself, Arabella took up the tumbled length of her hair and began to twist the mess. “Speak then.”
Mr. Harrow looked at her... taking in the sculpted lips that hardly ever smiled, the high cheekbones, the deep gold of her skin, and unlikely upturned grass shaded eyes. “Hold out your hand.”
Her body bent out of the light. “No.”
“Coward.”
“Bastard.”
When Lucifer's beauty twisted into an expression of outright vehemence, Arabella could not help but cock a questioning brow. Understanding bloomed. He was a bastard. Regarding the man whose eyes had tightened to slits, she felt her own agitation lessen, as his grew.